


Like the Burning Sensation of Firewhiskey

by Soofija



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Firewhiskey (Harry Potter), Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Post-War, Sirius Black Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-18 00:24:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21502255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soofija/pseuds/Soofija
Summary: She smiles during the day. She can’t do anything but; everyone unconsciously depends on her to carry them, their burden on her shoulders, to keep them going. And she does. Because that’s her role, her part. Her responsibility.She stops smiling when the sun sets, and darkness falls once again. But she does not cry. She’s afraid that if she did, she wouldn’t be able to stop.He watches her, and waits. Knows that someday soon she will have to break, hopes that he will be there to catch her when she does.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Hermione Granger
Comments: 5
Kudos: 108





	Like the Burning Sensation of Firewhiskey

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: Written in 2007, and seriously, still so good. One of my best, if I do say so myself. Hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing what so ever related to Harry Potter. But oh, how I wish I did...

She smiles during the day. She can’t do anything but; everyone unconsciously depends on her to carry them, their burden on her shoulders, to keep them going. And she does. Because that’s her role, her part. Her responsibility. She does it without once asking, “Why me?”. Because, in a way, she knows why: she has always been the one with all the answers, all the solutions. Why should now be any different?

She stops smiling when the sun sets, and darkness falls once again. When she closes her bedroom door and leans against it, she also closes her eyes, and lets the act rest. She remembers everything she forces herself to forget during the day – the memories of pain, the ever-present feeling of dread, the anxiety, the hopelessness…the loss – and the smile disappears. But she does not cry. She’s afraid that if she did, she wouldn’t be able to stop. And she needs to keep everything, including herself, together as much for herself as for everyone else.

_He watches her, and waits. Knows that someday soon she will have to break, hopes that he will be there to catch her when she does. He knows that nobody else sees her pain: the lost, empty look, much too jaded for someone so young; the infinitesimal cracks that appear in her façade every now and then. He admires the Gryffindor bravery inside her, the nobility, the loyalty that keeps her pretending. Keeps her going. But he also knows that it’s not for her. It’s for everyone else. And for every day she carries on without crumbling, he watches her more closely. Worries more._

_He feels guilty for caring more about her well-being than that of his godson. But since the war ended, Harry has become almost unreachable, talking only to Ginny or Hermione. He refuses to talk to Ron, never mind Sirius. So he figures that since she carries the weight of his godson’s worries, he might as well carry her in return._

She keeps her secret stash of firewhiskey in her room. The burning sensation of the liquor running down her throat is so much easier to deal with, so much more real, than the suffocating feeling in her chest that grows stronger with each passing day, that she fears will someday overwhelm her, whether she acknowledges it or not.

_Somehow, the death of Moony does not affect him as it ought to. Perhaps the years in Azkaban, or those spent trapped in Limbo, have made him…numb. Or perhaps he finds comfort in knowing that Remus died beside the woman he loved. He, of all people, knows what a comfort love can be._

_So he finally gives in._

**_He comes to her late one night, when heavy raindrops are hammering against the windows and on the roof above their heads, and thunder is rolling. She is sitting on her bed, turning a glass of whiskey in her hands as if trying to divine her future from within the amber liquid’s depths, even though she does not believe in such nonsense._ **

She should react to the sight of him standing in her doorway in the middle of the night, wearing nothing but a pair of worn pyjama bottoms. She should wonder what he’s doing there. And she should be embarrassed because it’s highly inappropriate. But she doesn’t care. It’s late. The sun has set, the door has been closed, the smile has faded. She is numb.

_He stands in her doorway. The door is closed behind him; he can feel the cold rough wood against his bare back, marking the point of no return. He hesitates. Now that he’s here, he’s unsure of what to do._

“ _I’ve been watching you,” he finally says, taking a step closer. She doesn’t move, doesn’t show with even the blink of an eye that she knows he’s there._

“ _You don’t need to do this,” he continues when she doesn’t react. “You fought in that war, too. You suffered and lost loved ones, too. You have as much of a right to grieve as anyone. No one asked you to ignore your feelings, and take care of everyone else’s.”_

_Finally, she looks at him, the vast emptiness in her eyes scaring him._

“ _Who would if I didn’t?_

**_“I would.”_ **

And suddenly he’s kneeling in front of her on the bed, tightly gripping her shoulders, and forcing his lips on hers. It’s not a kiss. It’s lips against lips, and she complies, letting his tongue invade her mouth because this is raw and unshielded emotion, as real and easy to handle as the burning sensation of firewhiskey.

**_It’s not gentle; it’s not love. It’s sex. Pure fucking. It’s hard and fast, primal and raw, and they gasp for breath, moan in ecstasy, and cry out in pain. Their kisses are hard enough to leave them both with bruised lips; someone – neither is sure who – bites down, drawing blood. She grips his shoulders, her blunt fingernails digging deep into the flesh, and, with her heal on his ass, tries to force him deeper inside her. He’s sure he’s going to break her, expecting more with every forward thrust to hear her beg him to stop, knows that his unrelenting grip on her hip is going to leave bruises come morning. But she doesn’t say a word, doesn’t utter one syllable as he drives into her. Instead she welcomes the pain that almost overwhelms the pleasure._ **

**_And finally, when they both reach the peak – his entire body tensing as he spills inside her; her shuddering around him with her head thrown back in a silent cry – she breaks. He’s still inside her, they’re still naked, they’re lying on top of the covers, and the glass of firewhiskey has fallen, the liquid staining the sheets, but it doesn’t matter. The sun has set, the door is closed, the smile has faded, but she’s no longer numb._ **

**_And she is no longer alone._ **

**_And as the first few tears start leaking from behind her closed eyelids, running down her cheeks and disappearing into her tangled, bushy hair, and as he kisses them away with a heretofore unknown gentleness, for the first time in a very long time, she’s glad she can still feel._ **

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments mean more to me than chocolate! <3


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